—The Ladies’ Work-Table Book, 1845 Ethan Trask sat at the head of our kitchen table. He looked serious, even for a Maine State Trooper. “Coffee?” The new electric coffeemaker I’d bought was now plugged in on the kitchen counter. It was the shiniest appliance in the room. He shook his head. “I had an early lunch. With caffeine.” “You wanted to talk with us,” I said. “With both of us.” Gram reached down to scratch Juno behind her left ear. “That’s right.” Ethan looked from one of us to the other. “I’m sorry, ladies. I realize this has been a rough week for you.” “Life’s hard, young man. Whatever you’ve got to say, get on with it.” Gram and I both sensed that whatever Ethan had to say wouldn’t be good. His eyes were sea blue. But today they were shrouded. Looking at them was like looking into cold, dark waters. He wasn’t smiling as he checked his notes. “According to Haven Harbor Hospital, Jacques Lattimore was brought by ambulance to their emergency room last night from your home.”
